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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29849478">Holly Hox, Forget Me Nots</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidnihoudini/pseuds/sidnihoudini'>sidnihoudini</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Body Horror, Case Fic, Gore, Hanahaki Disease, I don't want to be a clue, Later Seasons AU, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:20:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,812</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29849478</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidnihoudini/pseuds/sidnihoudini</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam looks down at the well-worn book of lore by his elbow, spine so broken it rests flat on the table. Beside it, the bubble mailer from Bobby, packed deep with enough rune-carved shark teeth to take down a whole family of selkie. Dean, across the room, tanned and spread, still wearing his boots and button down.</p><p>“Yeah,” Sam says. “But… did she just say people are exploding?”</p><p>They stare at each other from across the room.</p><p>“Sounds like archangel crap,” Dean belatedly agrees.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Holly Hox, Forget Me Nots</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I saw a post about hanahaki in November and thought... man. That would make a cool case fic.</p><p>One little warning: there are lots of COVID-esque references and happenings in this fic. COVID is not an actual thing in the story, but I used it as a kind of framework for hanahaki. So if COVID is a point of anxiety for you, just a heads up on that.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I come from down south, where vegetation does not know its place. Honeysuckle can work through cracks in your walls and strangle you while you sleep, and Wisteria can lift a building off its foundation.”</p><p>— Bailey White</p><p>*</p><p>
  <i>Japanese health authorities have not been able to identify a mysterious type of neurofibromatosis that has infected dozens of people so far, and put the rest of Asia on high alert.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>A total of 17 cases of unknown neurofibromatosis growths have been reported in the city of Tokyo, with several patients in critical condition, the Ministry of Health, Labour, and Welfare said in a statement on Sunday morning.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>All patients are being treated in quarantine and no deaths have been reported.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>According to the World Health Organization (WHO), the initial symptoms of the disease are dizziness, headaches, and sweet smelling breath. A number of patients have also experienced bouts of coughing and freckling (indention) of the skin.</i>
</p><p>*</p><p>
  <i>Officials in Japan are racing to contain the outbreak of a new virus that has left at least eleven people dead, and injured more than 500. It was recently confirmed that the infection can be passed between humans.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Earlier this week, the World Health Organization (WHO) confirmed the official name for this strange new illness: Hanahaki Disease. Most cases have been located in Asia and Russia, with the majority in Tokyo itself, but have spread as far afield as Nagasaki, Sapporo, and Beijing.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The death toll rose to eleven on Wednesday morning. Along the victims is a 22-year-old woman, and a 42-year-old man who first exhibited symptoms of the disease over a month ago. Health authorities have not yet released information around the later stages of the disease.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Despite initial reports that the disorder was unlikely to spread from human to human, Japanese health authorities have now indicated there is “definitely transmission” between humans, although the exact contact is not yet understood.</i>
</p><p>*</p><p>
  <i>Another case of Hanahaki Disease has been confirmed in Washington, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention said on Sunday. The announcement brings the total to five cases in the United States.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The increase came as a top Japanese health official delivered some worrisome news about efforts to contain the fast-moving, still misunderstood disease.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Several people have been infected with Hanahaki Disease in the US -- including a woman in her thirties, two teenagers, a man in his twenties, and a woman in her forties. All had recently returned back to the US from Tokyo, which is currently the epicenter of the outbreak.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“With other illnesses, there are steps that we can all take to reduce the risk of getting sick, such as staying home when we aren’t feeling well, washing our hands with soap and water, and getting vaccinated against the flu,” the Director of the Los Angeles County Department of Public Health said Tuesday. “We are not seeing evidence that any of these things work to contain the spread of Hanahaki Disease. We don’t understand how transmission happens. As a country, we are about to see something that we have not had to deal with yet. I recommend you be prepared.”</i>
</p><p>*</p><p>WAUPACA, WISCONSIN</p><p>“Great,” Dean comments, sucking potato chip grease off his thumb.</p><p>Sam looks over from his book.</p><p>They’ve been bumbling around the Chain O’Lakes for two weeks now, trying to hunt a pack of selkies. Dean tracked them from Cloquet Valley down into Chief Lake, and now Waupaca, but all they’ve done since then is steal two books from the Outagamie Library and ask Bobby to send a bubble mailer of shark teeth to their PO box.</p><p>Meanwhile, new cases of this unknown disease have been popping up every day they’ve been here.</p><p>On TV, the reporter asks, “Ma’am -- do you think fears of Hanahaki are overblown?”</p><p>“What’s she asking her for?” Sam snorts, looking over at the TV. For some reason the local news has been reporting live from the mall for almost an hour. “Why do you even watch this crap, man?”</p><p>Dean’s eyebrows drift up as he shakes his chip bag around for a good one. “Research.”</p><p>“The government is in on it!” ma’am blasts into the mic. Sam notices she’s wearing a homemade t-shirt that says IN PURSUIT OF TRUTH. “It’s manmade cancer! A false flag! They pump you full of tumors until you explode!”</p><p>The news anchor tries to reel the lady back in, but it’s too late.</p><p>“Can’t put Pandora back in the box,” Dean chuckles, bag crinkling. He shakes his head. “People are crazy.”</p><p>Sam looks down at the well-worn book of lore by his elbow, spine so broken it rests flat on the table. Beside it, the bubble mailer from Bobby, packed deep with enough rune-carved shark teeth to take down a whole family of selkie. Dean, across the room, tanned and spread, still wearing his boots and button down.</p><p>“Yeah,” Sam says. “But… did she just say people are exploding?”</p><p>They stare at each other from across the room.</p><p>“Sounds like archangel crap,” Dean belatedly agrees.</p><p>Yeah, that’s exactly what Sam was thinking. He raises his eyebrows at Dean in an emphatic way and reaches for his laptop. Most of their enochian research is on a private server now, because too many demons have tried to walk off with his shitty old laptops over the years.</p><p>Sam presses his knuckly fist to his mouth as he thinks. </p><p>“Subatomic destruction?” he asks after a second, glancing over at Dean.</p><p>Dean tisks and climbs off the bed. “Friggin’ angels, man.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Sam frowns, zoning out as a truly gruesome number of file numbers scroll along the bottom of the screen. Every name, every case, every piece of information they’ve ever gathered, reduced to ones and zeroes and nothing more. Sam makes a face. “Do we really think angels are blowing people up in Japan?”</p><p>It’s not outside the realm of possibility, but for what? And why Japan?</p><p>“Why not?” Dean shrugs, apathetic. He walks over to the vinyl kitchenette table and grimaces down at Sam. “Sounds like something they would do.”</p><p>Sam can’t argue with that. He gives Dean a look of consideration, and then says, “Don’t get crumbs all over me.”</p><p>“What?” Dean is offended. Sam laughs at the pointed glare on his face. “Don’t flatter yourself,” Dean says, insulted. He smells like BBQ flavoring and pork rinds, and Sam has spent the better part of his life watching Dean wipe those fingers off on bedsheets and armchairs and jeans on thighs. Dean takes his amused silence as a grudge. “Hey, I offered to get you some.”</p><p>It’s true. Every trip Dean has ever taken to the parking lot in the last 35 years has come along with a standing offer to get Sam something from the vending machine, too.</p><p>The sweetness of those memories evaporate as Dean wipes his hand off on Sam’s shirt.</p><p>“I’m gonna hit you, stop,” Sam warns.</p><p>Dean tugs on the collar of Sam’s flannel with his fingers and teases, “Make me.”</p><p>Out of habit, Sam smacks his hand up and around blindly. He does get one good hit in, and then the second one is rebuffed by Dean, who’s still laughing about it.</p><p>“Dude,” Sam says. He clears his throat and adjusts his collar back from where Dean tugged it to the side.</p><p>It ends up being a truce because Dean accepts Sam’s tap without retribution. Sam shakes his head and goes back to clicking through the database. To start, he’s gonna look for incidences of exploding bodies… maybe spontaneous combustion.</p><p>As he skims, he listens to Dean digging around in the mini fridge behind him.</p><p>The database gets Sam a few hits back -- but no matches.</p><p>“Thanks,” he says, glancing over as Dean sets an open beer down.</p><p>He takes a break, settling back in the chair as Dean leans against the edge of the table. The whole thing sways under Dean’s ass. </p><p>“Let’s go gank this seal chick and get back to the bunker before things get crazy,” Dean says, looking down at Sam with a serious twist to his face. He raises his eyebrows. “If this is our gig, maybe Cas has heard something.”</p><p>Sam sighs and wraps one hand around the neck of his beer.</p><p>“Yeah.” If anyone has intel, it’s probably going to be Castiel. Sam thinks for a second, mind running all over the place. The only thing scarier than this being an angel thing is… “What if it’s not, though, Dean?”</p><p>Dean frowns down at him.</p><p>“We take it one day at a time,” he says simply. Sam nods. “Until we can prove otherwise, it’s something we can figure out.”</p><p>It’s a pep talk. Dean has his cheerleading pom poms on, and they both know it. They look at each other, and Sam nods again, even though his gut feeling isn’t good. It has to be supernatural, but those numbers…</p><p>Dean breaks their gaze first, leaning across the rickety table, tanned belly hanging out as he stretches over to pick up one of Sam’s opened lore books.</p><p>“We keep doing our job, Sammy,” he says seriously, gently setting the book down between them. It’s already open to an old, hand painted lithograph of a selkie. “And if this <i>is</i> the friggin’ plague, then we keep our head down. We’ve been through worse.”</p><p>Across the room, on the TV, an infectious disease expert pontificates on the newest numbers.</p><p>“Yeah,” Sam agrees, sliding the book out from under Dean’s dirty fingers. “You’re right.”</p><p>He closes the lid of his laptop and they look at each other again.</p><p>“Man. Every time I think it can’t get weirder,” Dean sighs, peeling his gaze away, back to the TV. He rubs the back of his neck, shoulders hunched and round.</p><p>Sam sighs too, and then they sit there together for a while, swigging their beer.</p><p>*</p><p>It’s another two days to take care of the selkies, mostly because they lose their first window due to poor timing on Sam’s part.</p><p>“I’m sorry!” he apologizes again, loudly, holding onto the dash with one hand, hair flying in his face as Dean throws his arm along the back of the seat, twists around at the hip, and reverses them off the dock at about 80 miles an hour.</p><p>She swings around nose first, and they skid out across the gravel packed at the end of the dock.</p><p>In front of them, an angry selkie launches itself out of the water. Its skin is translucent and gauzy blue, like a dead, water-bloated corpse.</p><p>“Friggin’ water witches, man,” Dean complains, throwing it into park.</p><p>The selkie crawls over the rocks, molts seaweed everywhere, and gives them a gnarly grin.</p><p>“Yeah,” Sam breathes.</p><p>They look at each other across the front seat, always one last glance, ‘just in case’ forever. Then they throw the doors open and jump out, Sam readying himself to twist a shark tooth into the selkie’s gills.</p><p>*</p><p>Everything in the car smells like shitty seafood, but they’re ready to roll out of Waupaca at dawn.</p><p>Sam yawns and scrolls through his phone contacts for Castiel’s number.</p><p>“I am never eating fish again,” Dean grumbles, dropping back behind the wheel.</p><p>They had showers to rinse off the selkie guts, but the glut of blood and blue scale is still everywhere else -- stuck in their clothes, the interior, the weapons they had to quickly throw back in the trunk as the town woke up.</p><p>Sam makes a face and holds his phone up to one ear.</p><p>“That’s what you said about the kraken, man, and you’re still always the first one to order calamari-” he says to Dean, cutting himself off when Castiel’s voicemail clicks over. “Hey Cas, just checking in. Give me a call when you get this. Bye.”</p><p>Dean rolls them out of the parking lot with a snort. “That was informative.”</p><p>“What do you want me to say?” Sam balks, putting his phone away. “We <i>really</i> hope your friends are blowing humans up, because somehow the alternative is worse?”</p><p>Instead of responding, Dean gives him the ‘whatever’ eyebrows, and busies himself with intently waiting for a safe left turn.</p><p>They cover 140 miles by the time the sun comes up. An hour after that, Dean stops to get gas and breakfast.</p><p>“What’d Bobby say?” Sam asks on his way back from the bathroom.</p><p>Dean shrugs, and looks at him over the roof of the car as he tenderly holds the gas pump with an awkward slump to his shoulders.</p><p>“Said he’s hunkering down,” he says. “Thinks it’s biological warfare.”</p><p>Great. Sam sighs. He watches as Dean finishes up, squeezing the pump one last time before he shakes it off and pulls out.</p><p>Dean’s forearm flexes as he sets the pump back in the machine.</p><p>“I think I’d rather go in blind on an angel fight,” Sam admits, voice flat.</p><p>They look at each other across the roof again. “Don’t wish too hard. We can hide from germs.”</p><p>“If people are exploding from this, whatever it is, that’s not a germ, Dean,” Sam says seriously. He arches his eyebrows and pointedly adds, “That’s terrorism.”</p><p>Dean snorts and cranks his door open. “Alright, Christiane Amanpour.”</p><p>“I’m serious!” Sam follows Dean back into the car, and mirrors the flabbergasted look on Dean’s face as they stare at each other from opposite sides of the bench seat. “So, let me get this straight. You’ll go in blind if it’s biblical, but you draw the line at the flu?”</p><p>The engine rumbles to life as Dean turns the key.</p><p>“You saw the news. It’s not the damn flu, Sam,” Dean bitches, angrily flipping the sun visor down before he pulls away from the gas pump. “It’s the bubonic friggin’ plague, possibly with explosives.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Do I have to remind you how that ended for us last time?”</p><p>Sam folds his arms over his chest and glares out the window.</p><p>“That was demonic, Dean,” he says, sour. “It doesn’t count.”</p><p>The mid-morning sun suddenly blasts out from over the mountains as Dean gets them back on the highway, going east on the I-80. Sam pulls his visor down too.</p><p>“Whatever.” Dean shakes his head and looks like he’s sucking on a lemon. Sam sneaks a glance over, catches Dean’s furrowed brow in the visor mirror, and thinks maybe he’ll drop it. But Dean barely makes a dent in the silent treatment he’s trying to dish out before he glares over at Sam and adds, “You’re lucky you were immune.”</p><p>Sam exhales through his nose. He can read between the lines, and he knows that loosely translates to <i>I white knuckled it the first time, don’t put me through it again.</i></p><p>“That was different,” Sam says after a minute, trying to be patient. “If there’s something we can do to help, Dean, you know we’ll do it.”</p><p>Dean shakes his head stubbornly. “If it’s not our gig we’re not.”</p><p>“He’s right, Sam,” Castiel says from the backseat. </p><p>The car almost swerves off the road, but Dean recovers before they go spinning into a ditch.</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” he complains, glaring at the rearview mirror.</p><p>Sam half turns around, eyebrows raised. “Cas.”</p><p>“I got your voice message,” Castiel explains.</p><p>Still gripping the wheel, Dean bitches, “Yeah, thanks.”</p><p>“News of the virus is spreading quickly,” Castiel continues, ignoring Dean. He and Sam look at each other carefully. Castiel’s mouth presses flat. “There is a troubling lack of knowledge available.”</p><p>Sam raises his eyebrows. “So it’s not you guys, then.”</p><p>“No,” Castiel says firmly. “The plague is to be avoided at all costs.”</p><p>There are corn fields on either side of the car, and up ahead, something bright and yellow, maybe sunflowers. Sam turns around and squints out at the horizon, thinking.</p><p>“Are you immune?” Dean asks, and Sam glances back over his shoulder, curious.</p><p>Castiel shrugs. “My grace abides. My vessel, most likely not.”</p><p>“Great.” Dean grips the steering wheel with renewed vigor and eyes Castiel through the rear view mirror. “You been to Japan lately?”</p><p>With no humor in his voice, Castiel flatly states a simple, “No.”</p><p>*</p><p>
  <i>On Tuesday, The World Health Organization officially declared Hanahaki Disease a pandemic, and urged aggressive action from all countries to fight it as American stocks plunged and global borders began to shutter.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The UN health agency is hoping that the “pandemic” classification shocks lethargic countries into taking urgent and aggressive action.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Hanahaki Disease began its spread through the United States early last month, where the first cases were discovered in Washington and California. In the weeks since, the deeply misunderstood disease has worked its way through more than 30 states.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Initial symptoms of Hanahaki include dizziness, headaches, and a sweet smelling breath.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Health officials are urging the public that this is more sinister than a regular flu.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>
  <i>BREAKING NEWS - NATIONAL EMERGENCY DECLARED: Multiple confirmed cases of Hanahaki Disease in Alaska, Wyoming and Vermont, bringing US total to 230,176 active cases with 46,938 deaths. </i>
</p><p>*</p><p>
  <i>As Hanahaki continues to rip its way from the west coast to the east, officials are urging the public to take precautions seriously.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Although scientists have not yet confirmed how transmission happens, many are warning that it could be something as simple as skin to skin contact. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“We are working very hard to understand the life of this virus,” a spokesperson for the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention said Wednesday. “This is not your average seasonal flu. We are finding more and more evidence that the virus results in rashes, lumps and bumps, and, in some fatal cases, complete asphyxiation. Please stay home. Please stay safe.”</i>
</p><p>*</p><p>Sam looks over at the TV, on mute to CNN like it has been since they got home from Waupaca two months ago.</p><p>He’s been elbow deep in research -- internet stuff, old records, talking to other hunters. Hell, he even convinced Dean to climb down into the basement and help him drag out some of the dusty old record boxes they found down there. Sam spent a week leafing through the thick, yellowing papers, meticulously kept records from decades of unethical medical experimentation.</p><p>It doesn’t make any sense. There are only three common symptoms -- lethargy, dizziness, and coughing, just like any other cold or flu. Other than that? No pattern. Sam has been recording cases <i>for weeks</i>, lurking /r/hanahaki every night, trolling news sites, everything.</p><p>No one can agree on how it spreads. Every health organization says something different. It started off airborne, like the mumps or TB. Then experts said it might be travelling through mucus membranes, or bodily fluids, like AIDS. Sam has even seen speculation of transmission through beastiality, stagnant water, corpses…</p><p>But here they are, two months in, and Sam doesn’t even know what they’re supposed to be protecting themselves from.</p><p>“I would give my left tit for a bar beer and burger right now,” Dean grouses.</p><p>He’s grumpy. Sam is grumpy. Lebanon is best seen framed through the rear window of their car.</p><p>“I hate to say it,” Sam sighs, closing his laptop. “Maybe Bobby was right.”</p><p>Dean snorts. He’s sitting in front of the TV playing cards by himself. “What are we, Andromeda Strain?”</p><p>“I’m not talking about aliens.” Sam gets up to get himself a drink. He pours a bourbon and listens to the snap of Dean counting cards. “Maybe it’s been staring us in the face this whole time,” he says, setting the bottle back. “You said it yourself, man. What if it’s Croatoan, but everywhere?”</p><p>He turns around, glass up to his mouth, and looks at the back of Dean’s skull. Fluffy hair, soft crooked shells of his ears, plaid collar of his shirt.</p><p>Sam takes a sip of his drink and then walks over to the armchair opposite Dean’s.</p><p>“I’m not saying it’s not demons, Sammy,” he acquiesces, looking up. “Let’s say it is. What’s the gag?”</p><p>The bourbon is good. Dry oak and heat. Sam looks down into the glass, and takes another sip.</p><p>“Maybe there isn’t one.” It wouldn’t be the first time, Sam thinks. “Whatever stopped a demon from hitting the big red button for fun?”</p><p>They look at each other carefully. Sam raises his eyebrows, and Dean arches one back. It’s something they both know intimately. The impulse and emancipation of it all. If they had ever gone darkside together, Sam knows they wouldn’t have been able to figure out how to get back.</p><p>He’d be building a sandcastle in Hell right now. With friggin’ bells on.</p><p>“Population cull?” Dean wonders, going back to his cards.</p><p>Sam snorts. He looks down into his glass and murmurs, “Now you sound like the people on TV.”</p><p>“What’s your theory then, poindexter?”</p><p>Honestly, Sam doesn’t know. He’s in the dark and fumbling around just like everyone else. It’s like the further this thing spins out, the deeper the conspiracy theories get. Sam hasn’t seen any evidence of exploding bodies, but there are entire factions of people online that believe it’s the government infecting people and blowing them up like fireworks.</p><p>When Sam doesn’t say anything, Dean looks up at him pointedly and asks, “Well?”</p><p>“Big red demon button,” Sam repeats, in lieu of a real answer. The look Dean gives him is so sour Sam starts laughing. He grins by himself, because Dean doesn’t join in, and eventually stretches one leg out until his socked toes bump into the heavy toe of Dean’s boot. “If I get it,” he starts--</p><p>Dean doesn’t let him get a fifth word in. “Shut up, Sam.”</p><p>“If I get it,” Sam patiently repeats. “Keep yourself safe.”</p><p>The smile Dean gives him is eerily pleasant. “You and I both know that isn’t going to happen,” he says, and Sam does know that. He rolls his eyes at the freakishly polite way Dean asks, “So how about you just don’t get it?”</p><p>“Listen, it’s not like the odds are high,” Sam reasons. And that’s the truth, because they’ve been living off canned food for weeks. The other night Dean ate an entire glass jar of strawberry preserves and Sam could barf just thinking about it. “I’m just saying. We don’t know how this transmits, and-”</p><p>Dean shuts him down again. “You’re not getting it, and neither am I. And we’re fine.”</p><p>Sighing, Sam twirls his bourbon around, and takes another sip.</p><p>“Maybe it’s a curse,” he muses. “Some kind of Muromachi juju.”</p><p>He’s not going to look in his books about it, but he’d potentially put curse on the table. It’s more realistic than Dean’s conspiracy theories at least.</p><p>“Hmm,” is all Dean says, which means the conversation is over.</p><p>Sam sits around for a little while longer. He changes the channel away from the news, but nothing is ever on cable anymore, so he just sits there, flipping through nothing, curling and uncurling his toes against Dean’s boot.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>More will be along soon! I'm <a href="http://sidnihoudini.tumblr.com">on tumblr</a> in the meantime.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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